


Left Behind

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5786068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to "Devil in the Deep." Even with the guys safely back, the echoes of being left behind continue to haunt Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left Behind

 

First published in  _Just the Four of Us 4_ (2001)

 

The flashing lights of the ambulance colored the dark street in various shades of red, giving its drab buildings a life and color they lacked in the daytime. It also painted his white shirt crimson and his worn pants a rust color, but turned his green eyes nearly black. The display would have fascinated the twelve-year old boy, but those dark eyes were fixed on something else.

At the top of the apartment building’s broken stairs, first one figure appeared, then another, a stretcher held between them. The boy moved forward involuntarily, knowing enough to stay out of the attendants’ way but drawn to the side of the stretcher. And the still figure that lay on it. The greying hair, once as rich brown as his own, looked scarlet in the odd light, and he almost didn’t recognize her for a moment, yet he _knew_.

He darted around the closer attendant as the man reached the sidewalk, and sidled up next to the woman. Her eyes were closed, her unusually pale face reflecting the ambulance lights. He was afraid to touch her, just as he had been when he’d found her lying in the hallway and called frantically for help, but he did swallow hard and whisper one word.

“Mom?”

She didn’t open her eyes, didn’t turn toward him, but her lips curled into the faintest smile, then breathed his name. “Peter...”

That was it, and then they were loading her carefully into the back of the ambulance and closing the doors. Nobody gave him a second look, no doubt figuring someone else would look after him, his father probably. As if he had any clue where his father was.

The ambulance sped away, its siren fading as it reached of the end of the block and turned. The dying light winked out altogether. And Peter Venkman remained behind, standing in the quiet street, for the first time well and truly alone.

 

Peter gave a startled, silent gasp, nearly starting out of bed as he did.

Bed?

The darkness was as black as in his dream, but the impressions that were sinking in were different. He was in pajamas, in bed. Stubble grazed his fingertips as he rubbed his face, as well as the few lines he’d collected in his thirty-four years. Around him, the quiet was broken by three pairs of unique snores, the one beside him a very familiar bass one.

He wasn’t alone.

Peter sagged back in his bed, trying to catch a breath that felt trapped in his constricted lungs and tight throat. _It was a dream. Just a dream._ Well, maybe not twenty-two years before, it hadn’t been, but now it was. He not only wasn’t alone anymore, but also had the three closest buddies anyone could imagine. It was a long way from that skinny boy who’d stood by himself out in the street and watched his last mainstay disappear out of sight.

Still. He slid slightly shaky legs over the side of the bed and stood, pausing briefly to make sure he hadn’t woken anyone with his movements. The trio of snores continued, uninterrupted. Good. Peter moved silently, avoiding all the squeaky spots in the floor that he knew so well, usually from coming in after the guys were all in bed.

His first stop was Egon’s bed, and he stood for a moment, seeing little but the white-blond hair and glint of teeth. Spengler was definitely there and well. Peter crossed the room to Winston’s bed next, satisfied as he saw the shape there turn on its side and sleep on. Just past him was Ray, his almost neon Stay Puft doll tucked against his chest. All of them present, all of them safe.

He wasn’t alone.

Beginning to feel ridiculous and more than a little chilly, Peter tiptoed back to his bed and wiggled as deeply under the covers as he was able. His hands, clenched around the edge of the blanket, were still cold when he finally drifted back to sleep.

 

The really big, draining busts usually meant a day off afterwards, barring an emergency. Hob Anagarak, Cthullu, Lupusville--the near catastrophes were exhausting and it felt good to kick back for a little while, let the adrenalin and shakes fade away, and reaquaint themselves with the idea that all was right again with their world. A bad day on their job could mean a brush with Armageddon, the death of a good friend, or the loss of one’s soul. That took a while to come off of.

This time, it was three of them dealing with their too close a shave, and Peter recovering from nearly losing them. For a while there, it had seemed like the huge underwater creature, Nexa, had eaten his three friends, leaving Peter temporarily shocked and alone. “Recovering” from something like that was actually a misnomer; soaking in his rescued friends’ presence was more accurate. Glued to their side. Tying them up where they were safe, if he had to.

He’d already checked on Ray in the engineer’s downstairs lab, twice. Happy to hear his youngest teammate as enthusiastic and cheerful and _alive_ as ever, Peter even listened to a lengthy explanation of some gizmo that looked like a collection of vacuum cleaner hoses, and the absolutely incomprehensible scientific principles behind it. Not that he was an iota the wiser afterwards, but it didn’t matter. Ray was delighted to find a willing audience, and Peter was delighted his friend was there to be giving the lecture. It was only when his eyes glazed over from the overabundance of four-syllable words that he’d finally torn himself away and gone upstairs.

Winston was busy cleaning out the seawater that had soaked the seats and trunk of Ecto, remnants of their last little escapade. All the equipment from the back was piled haphazardly next to the old hearse as Zeddemore fussed over the mess in the back. The small unit tucked under the heap of machinery was all but hidden, but Peter gave it a contemplative look before offering to give Winston a hand. He soon found himself pressed into service, a bucket and a rag in his hands as he crawled into the front seat and dutifully set to work on the salt-gritted seats. The conversation half-consisted of Winston’s complaints about what seawater did to carpets and upholstery, but it was just the casual tone Peter needed, reminding him of how his mom had fussed at messes he made. As usual, being in the older man’s presence loosened him up, got him in touch with the basics again. By the time Ecto was cleaned out, Winston was grinning and Peter found himself grinning back.

Egon’s lab was where he found the last member of the team, and Peter stood in the doorway for a long moment, just watching his oldest and closest friend work. He did that a lot, more than Egon realized, he bet, though no doubt Egon also noticed his presence more than Peter realized.

The physicist seemed to be taking a rare break from work, leaning intently over a tray that held what looked like a colorful array of rotting food. Peter happily grimaced. He wouldn’t have studied something like that if they paid him, but Egon looked as happy as a clam--a saying Peter had always wondered about, come to think of it. Who could tell when a clam was happy? But it wasn’t hard with Egon. Nearly every kind of pursuit of knowledge fascinated him, and there were few things he liked more than research.

Egon up close and personal with his fungus collection. Life just didn’t get any better than that, Peter thought wryly, and walked into the lab.

“Hello, Peter,” Egon said without looking up.

“Spengs,” Peter acknowledged in return, flopping down on the sofa in the lab to lazily watch. He didn’t even wonder how Egon had known it was him.

A minute of silence went by before Egon did glance at him, gaze as penetrating as when he’d studied his fungi. “Is anything wrong?”

“Nope,” Peter said, shaking his head. “Just didn’t want you dying of boredom up here. I thought I’d bring a little life into your afternoon.”

“Is that what you call it?” muttered Egon, almost too low for Peter to hear.

“What was that?” the psychologist asked innocently.

Egon looked up briefly again before going back to his work. “I was just saying ‘thank you’.”

“Ah.” Peter grinned. He’d caught the dry humor in the blue eyes. Egon was teasing him in his unique way. Irreplaceable. And yet Peter had almost lost his best friend the day before, and Ray and Winston, just as unexpectedly as his mom had gone. His grin disappeared, stomach twisting at the reminder.

“Actually, I’m finished with this for today,” Egon suddenly declared, straightening up and carefully setting the dish back under the warming lights it usually sat under. “If you’d have some time, Peter, I’d like to take a look at the device you built yesterday. I’d be intrigued to learn the principles behind it.” He stood watching Peter expectantly.

Venkman shook himself out of his dark thoughts. “Huh? You mean the machine? Why do you want to bother with that? It blew up.” Maybe there was a hint of bitterness in his voice, but he didn’t care. It had done its job and saved his friends, but then made a fool out of him by falling apart, much to said friends’ delight. One more screw-up in a day full of them, but Peter was still trying not to think about what would have happened if it had broken just a little bit earlier.

“It accomplished what you built it for, that’s what matters,” Egon said, to Peter’s surprise. Usually the scientist was the one who talked about higher purposes than simple utility. “Do you know where it is?”

“Uh, I think I saw it down by Ecto.” Peter waved a deceptively casual hand. “It’s really not that important.”

“Certainly it is. Not only did you conceive of and build a unit completely out of your field, but it was also successful in saving our lives. I would hardly call that insignificant, and I would relish the chance to study your device. Perhaps we could even repair it for future use. That is, if you don’t mind.”           

Peter Venkman was too jaded by life to blush anymore, but he was touched. Egon wasn’t lavish with his praise, and it felt terrific. But the physicist was watching Peter closely and far too knowingly, and Venkman had a pretty good idea that Egon knew what was on his mind. He was doing this for Peter as much as for any personal scientific interest.

That didn’t diminish his appreciation one bit. It always warmed Peter to know his friends cared about him. Nor was the idea of spending a few hours working on a project with Spengler unpleasant, either, not after thinking he’d lost his best friend for good. Even if the time was spent with a smoking hulk of machinery that brought back more memories than he cared to deal with.

Peter shrugged, trying to look like it didn’t matter much one way or another to him, his pleasure showing only in his eyes. Which Egon could read as easily as he could Sumerian. “Okay,” Peter tossed off, rising from the couch to lead the way downstairs.

It was only hours later, when their team had regrouped in the family room to watch TV and share some pizza and popcorn and company, that Peter realized he was truly relaxed. The unwinding time with his teammates, especially in the lab with Egon, had slowly calmed the panic that had taken root in him the day before. As quickly as he’d seemed to lose everything, he’d gotten it all back. Peter looked around at his friends and breathed a sigh of contentment. Life was good.

 

The two men were carrying the stretcher down, their white shirts blood-colored in the light from the ambulance. They carried it effortlessly, the woman on it so insubstantial.

He ran up to her, trying not to cry. That was something he’d gotten pretty good at over the years, as the disappointments and let-downs had piled up, innumerable, but it was harder now than ever. Always in the past he’d at least had her to turn to, even when everything else, everyone else had become unreliable.

And now she was leaving, too. He wanted to touch her, to take her hand and stop her from leaving even as he knew that she needed to go. She was sick, and maybe they could make her better where they were taking her. If she stayed, she’d only get sicker, and that would be an even worse blow. But in the meantime, he would be alone.

They shut the doors on her, and even though he craned his neck to see in, the windows on the ambulance were too high. The vehicle started to pull away, and with that new angle, he thought for a moment he glimpsed her face. Then that, too, was gone.

He stood in the empty street a long time after that, silently crying. There was no one to hide the tears from anymore. Maybe not ever again...

 

Peter shuddered awake, mouth stretched in a voiceless cry. He snapped it shut, jaw clamping against the fear that choked him.

His face was damp, and he reached up abashedly to wipe at the wet trails on his cheeks. Some mature psychologist he was. One little crisis and his subconscious had a fit.

It didn’t take much training to put together why, though. The day before, he’d nearly lost all three of his closest friends and teammates to forces beyond his control. It’d left him behind, alone, terrified and helpless. There certainly were echoes of that in the memory his dreams insisted on rehashing. His mother’s illness twenty-two years before had left him similarly bereft.

Even then he hadn’t been alone, of course. His mom had had friends throughout the apartment building, and while he was old enough to stay by himself, Peter had had several visitors each day, checking in on him, bringing him something to eat. And a week later, his mother had returned home, tired but better. Everything had worked out okay then, too, at least as okay as things ever were in his childhood. But the feeling of being abandoned and alone was a powerful one, burned into his memory. And relived all too vividly thirty-six hours before.

Peter turned his face into the pillow, trying to still the trembling that refused to die along with the dream. Ridiculous; he’d already dealt with the near-loss of his friends, why should an over-twenty-year-old memory bother him so much?

He refused to give in once more to the childish urge to rise and check on his friends. Peter could count their snores, just like the night before, and knew they were there with him, safe and well. His mom had left the area some time back and he didn’t see her often, but the guys had been there for him throughout. His new family.

Curling up to try to warm himself under the covers, Peter made himself go back to sleep.

 

The next day was back to what passed for normal in their occupation. Peter could almost forget about Nexa in the thrill of a challenging but typical job. This time it was three goopers in primary colors, not happy about being chased and not shy about showing it. Peter was already covered nearly head to toe with slime, the primary colors sliding together to form a whole rainbow on his jumpsuit. Prime fodder for complaining all the way back home, but for now, it felt great just to be active and in their element again.

Ray and Egon were dealing with Blue and Yellow, respectively, while Red swooped down in front of Peter, draping him in a layer of goo and giving him a new hair color. He made a face at the ghost, bringing up his thrower a moment too late. The beam only scarred the office wall beyond the ghost. Winston on his left had a little better luck, his glancing blow making Red shriek and spin around for another run. That was more like it. Peter gave a yahoo and reaimed.

A sudden yell from Ray tied Peter’s stomach in an instant knot and he forgot about Red as he turned to locate his younger teammate. Stantz turned out to be close, racing across the middle of the room as he chased Blue. But his cry had been one of triumph, as his beam had snagged Blue smack in the middle and was now drawing the struggling ghost in. Without a second thought, Peter gave up on Red for the moment and lent his beam to Ray’s, pulling Blue down into a trap in seconds.

“Thanks, Peter.”

Relieved, Peter gave the engineer a quick grin and wave as he turned back to Red.

“Careful, Pete!” That was Winston, running toward him with Red between the two of them. Venkman knew what he meant: duck, and fast, because standing there would either necessitate Winston pulling his shot or else put Peter at risk.

He abruptly found he didn’t care. With a whoop, he shot high, over Winston’s head as the black man jumped out of the way, and caught the ghost by surprise. A moment later, Zeddemore’s beam joined his and trapped Red. The ghost gave a wail and then thinned and disappeared into the trap.

“Pete--” Winston began with a frown.

But the psychologist hadn’t even waited for the trap to shut, already racing across the building lobby to where crashes and flares of light indicated Egon was with Yellow. Ray preceded him around the corner, and Peter followed him into what turned out to be a maintenance corridor, plain white walls stretching down to a distant back door. It was at that end that Egon struggled with Yellow, Ray quickly joining him to pin the gooper. The hall’s narrowness or the fact that they had Yellow nearly trapped didn’t deter Peter; just in case, he dashed down the hallway after them, joining their efforts to dispose of the final threat. Within seconds, the third ghost had joined the first two in a trap.

Suddenly, quiet reigned except for three men gasping for breath, soon joined by a fourth.

“I think--we had the--situation under control--Peter, but thank you,” Egon puffed.

“Yeah, what was--that about?” Winston bent over to prop his hands against his knees and catch his breath. “I had that gooper in my sites and you almost got me instead!”

Peter’s adrenalin high was beginning to crash and he scowled briefly. “No way, Winston. Hey, it’s teamwork, guys, remember? Working together, watching each others’ backs?” He stowed his thrower. “You guys okay?” He gave each one of them an intent look, but the only flowing red stuff visible was the unnatural neon slime. Good. His mom always had said if it wasn’t bleeding, it wasn’t serious. Peter’s grin returned. “Last one back to the car is moldier than Egon’s collection.” Without another glance, he jogged back down the hall and toward the front door.

A long minute later, he was just considering going back to make sure everyone really was all right when the building door opened and his three partners emerged. Peter released a long, uneven breath, his hands beginning to shake a little as the adrenalin finally, suddenly, flowed away. Well, that wasn’t entirely abnormal after a vigorous job, right? He ignored it, tucking his fists into his pockets and grinning at his teammates as they crawled into Ecto.

Winston got in the front with him, giving Peter an odd glance as he did. Egon did, too, as he climbed into the back. Probably just not used to him being so energetic. He really had outdone himself in there. Maybe too much so, from the looks they were giving him, but then, all that really mattered was that they were safe. Safe and alive.

In a moment, Ray climbed in as well and his hair color caught Peter’s attention. With some relief, he redirected his dark thoughts with a comment about the lovely shade of purple and how well it went with Ray’s subsequent blush. And before long, the mood in the car returned to gloriously normal.

But if anyone noticed that Peter hovered nearby the rest of the day, unwilling to let them out of his sight for long, no one mentioned it. He was almost unaware of it himself.

Almost.

 

“Mom?”

He had to say something to her before she was gone, coax some sort of response out of her to prove that everything was going to be okay.

“Peter...” The voice, as frail as the wind, did little to assure him, but his memory clung to the sound of that one word, even as the doors closed after her and she was gone.

The wail of the siren was the most frightening, lonely sound he’d ever heard, like the expression of the fear that chilled his own heart. His dad was somewhere, sure, but who knew when Charlie Venkman would breeze back into town or how long he’d stay. With his mother, everything that was home and stability had left, too.

The tears eventually turned into quiet sobs, and he’d sat on the curb there next to Old Mr. Holvey’s car, crying until he was too tired to do so any longer. Then, he slowly turned and went back into the building, to the empty apartment, by himself.

 

Peter gasped, waking in mid-sob. To the darkness of the firehouse bedroom and the sounds of sleep. Safety. Company.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to calm himself down even though he couldn’t stop shivering, his body cold down to his bones. And miserable. He could still see those flashing red lights reflected on her face...

His eyes snapped open once more, and with a silent groan he pressed them into the pillow instead.

“Peter?”

The deep voice was pitched low, for him to hear without waking the others. Peter nearly jumped at it nevertheless. Great, now he was waking the guys up with his stupid nightmares as well.

“I’m okay, Egon. Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep,” he hissed back.

A hesitation, then, resignedly, “Very well. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” Peter whispered, his voice softening. He wasn’t just not alone, he was with friends who cared about him.

Slightly comforted and almost warm, Peter lay awake and thought about his mother until he finally slipped back to sleep.

 

The ride home was one of the most frigid Peter Venkman had ever been on with his three friends and teammates.

He sat hunched in the back seat, next to a Ray who was looking uncomfortably anywhere but at him except for the quick glances he stole at the psychologist that he didn’t seem to think Peter noticed. Egon sat stiffly in the front seat, staring straight ahead through the window. Just the fact that he wasn’t engrossed in his calculator already made his mood clear enough. And Winston drove with silent precision through the city streets, even his usually tapping fingers still on the steering wheel.

The quiet disapproval was as dense in the air as a New York summer heatwave, making Peter unzip the top of his jumpsuit and roll the window down partway. The slight breeze stirred up by the moving car played with Egon’s roll of hair, but the physicist remained unmoving and rigid.

He would have thought they’d have a little sympathy at least, Peter groused silently as his stare moved from the back of one head to another. He shifted his immobilized arm as much as the sling would allow, clamping his jaw against the automatic groan the movement invited. So it was only a dislocated shoulder and the emergency room doctor had said it would be okay in a few days, but it still hurt like the blazes. Surely that was good for _something_.

Okay, so he had been wrong. That was not something Peter Venkman admitted easily, but this time there was no way around it. The readings had been diffuse when they’d arrived, the kind of situation that on any other bust would have led them to split up and track it down. But Peter had balked at the idea of two of his teammates going off alone and had refused, no amount of Egon’s logic changing his mind.

That wouldn’t have been so bad, but what happened after...all right, he should have known better. Anxious to take point and confront any trouble before it hit the guys, he’d gone too far ahead of his teammates and, despite their yelled warnings, recklessly attacked the...thing that had been patiently waiting for him. Two throwers could have probably handled it, but not one, especially when he didn’t even get a shot off. After being flung across the room and into a wall, it had been all he could do to swallow his nausea and pain and manage to sit up by the time his teammates had the thing trapped and rushed over to help him.

They’d been scared sick, he could see it in their eyes, just as he had been for a moment before realizing his friends were all okay. Egon had carefully braced Peter on one side, giving Peter’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze before he grasped tightly, and Ray had taken his hand to give him something to hold on to. Then Winston, his Army training coming in handy yet again, had moved in and with one quick, brilliantly agonizing motion, snapped the shoulder back into place. While Peter tried to start breathing again and blink the red out of his vision, the eldest ghostbuster had left to bring the car close, and then Ray and Egon had eased him on his feet and outside, to take him to the hospital.

It was when he’d come out of the emergency room, arm in a sling but on his feet and relatively okay, that it seemed to sink into his teammates that he’d nearly gotten himself killed with his foolhardy behavior. And it had been the cold shoulder ever since, except for Ray’s worried peeks.

So maybe it hadn’t been the brightest thing in the world to do, and, truthfully, Peter could sympathize with how his friends felt. No one was allowed to be reckless with the life of one of their teammates, not even the teammate himself. But couldn’t they understand even a little bit that he’d been trying to protect them?

Fine, he was in the doghouse, Peter thought resignedly, sliding down into his seat and curling around his bad arm. Whatever. The painkillers they’d given him in the ER made him too tired to try to bluster his way out of this one. He just hoped the guys would let up on him before too long. Ostracization was nearly as lonely as abandonment, lacking only the awful fear.

Avoiding that unhappy thought, Peter let his eyes slide shut and dozed.

 

He almost thought the nightmare had awoken him again, except there was no rush of terror and loss as he started awake. Peter stared blankly at the black leather head rest in front of him, trying to figure out what it was and just why he had woken up.

He wasn’t cold, either, despite his lack of blanket, and memory returned to reveal why. Ecto. They’d been driving home, but now the old hearse was quiet and still, the seat in front of him empty. Venkman’s window was rolled down all the way now, and outside it was the familiar sight of the firehouse garage walls. He must have fallen asleep on the way home and no one had roused him.

He was scrunched down against the door, and gingerly straightening from that cramped position made a previously unnoticed weight on his shoulder shift. Peter blinked in surprise at the seat beside him. He hadn’t been left to himself, after all. Egon was sitting in Ray’s former spot, a book in one hand while the other stretched across the back of the seat to rest on Peter’s good shoulder. Blue eyes studied him silently with warm concern, a decided contrast from the icy treatment from before.

Peter stretched minutely, not wanting to dislodge the grip that was surprisingly comforting, but he couldn’t help the wariness in his tone as he quipped, “This mean you’re not mad at me anymore?” Some things were too ingrained to ever be rid of.

“Of course we are, Peter,” Egon said, deadpan, setting down his book but his other hand remaining right where it was. Only the physicist could pull off a statement that was so contrary to his actions. “No nightmares this time?”

“No, not--” Peter’s mouthed snapped shut, his face flushing with anger at himself, and at Egon. The question had been asked so calmly, he’d answered before he’d thought about it. “What’re you talking about?” he asked warily.

The fingers pressed gently for a second, a reminder of who he was talking to. “You could have told us--you expect us to do the same, Doctor Venkman.” Another gentle reminder. “Is it Nexa?”

Peter stared out the window, glad for the empty garage but still wishing he was anywhere but there. Or, deep down inside, maybe not. “It’s not Nexa,” he finally answered, voice dull. “But that’s what started it.”

“Started what?”

He took a deep breath, feeling his friend’s hand rise and fall with the expiration. As steady as Egon himself was. “I’ve been dreaming about my mom. About one time when she got sick and they had to take her to the hospital.”

Egon, when he was paying attention, was pretty quick. “And left you alone?” he asked, emotion in his voice for the first time.

Peter half-shrugged as he stared at the row of lockers along the garage wall. “Only for about a week, then she was okay enough to come home again. The neighbors made sure I was okay, that I didn’t go hungry while she was gone...” His voice trailed off, suddenly choked up.

“But you were still alone.” A quiet shift in the seat as Egon put his book down. “Just like when Nexa, er, made the three of us disappear.”

Peter almost smiled; Egon always had a problem with those things he couldn’t quite explain, like just what had happened with them when Nexa had apparently swallowed them in front of Peter. His humor faded at the memory and he closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the window frame. “I guess.” Peter squirmed, uncomfortable at how revealing this was getting, and opened his eyes to turn and look at Egon. “What’re you doing down here, anyway? I would have figured you guys couldn’t wait to get home and go upstairs and leave me behind.” For a joke, it came off mighty weakly.

Egon’s eyes narrowed speculatively a fraction. “I suspect that is what you were trying to stop us from doing today at the bust.”

Peter flinched, looking back out the window again. His arm wasn’t happy about the movement, the achy throb when he’d awakened now beginning to send more active messages of pain to his brain. But some aches went far deeper and Peter just hugged his bad arm to himself and ignored its comparatively paltry complaint.

Unperturbed, Egon continued. “Why don’t you think you had the dream this time, Peter?”

He gave another listless half-shrug. “Didn’t sleep long enough, I don’t know.”

“Actually, you were asleep nearly three hours,” was the surprising response, and Peter almost started except that his mind and body were too sluggish to pull it off. He hated drugs almost as much as he hated pain.

But the words still sank in. Egon had sat there with him for three hours? Even despite being annoyed with Peter?

The bass voice continued not unkindly next to him. “I suspect there’s a different reason for your lack of dreaming, don’t you?”

Like someone sitting next to him, making his presence physically tangible? Even subconsciously Peter must have been aware that he wasn’t alone. Great solution: all he had to do was make sure one of the guys sat up the night with him to keep the bad dreams at bay. Yeah, right.

Egon knew him far too well. “I am not suggesting one of us must be with you while you sleep--I’m afraid that would put a considerable crimp in your lifestyle,” the physicist said dryly, and Peter almost sputtered into a smile again. “But we are your friends, Peter, and we are here when you need us, just as you have repeatedly been for us. I believe once your subconscious is reassured of that once more, the dreams will also go away.”

“Who’s the psychologist of the group, Spengler?” Peter muttered without rancor. But the words struck deep. He closed his eyes, feeling the coolness of the metal window frame against the side of his face as he took a deep breath. Egon didn’t say anything, absently kneading some of the tension out of Peter’s good shoulder as he patiently waited. It felt good, both for his abused body and his weary heart. He hadn’t been alone a single day of his life since he’d met Egon, then Ray and Winston. Even when they were mad at him, even when he was sleeping and not even conscious of company, or of his need for it. Even, God help him, when he thought they were snatched away for good.

Another deep breath, until he was sure his voice would be steady, and then Peter peered sideways at his oldest friend. “Does this mean I get to sleep in and have breakfast in bed tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.

“I believe the doctor recommended additional rest, but there is nothing wrong with your legs to keep you from coming down for breakfast, Peter,” Egon said with his usual gravity, but there was a definite spark of humor in his eyes. “Besides, remember what happened the last time when Slimer discovered you were having breakfast in bed?”

Peter gave a mock shudder, not letting it jar his arm. “Don’t remind me.” The painkillers were beginning to wear off, leaving the unpleasant drugged feeling without the relief for his throbbing shoulder.

Egon noticed, as usual, and he finally let go of Peter as he reached for the door handle. “It’s almost time for the pills the doctor gave you. After that, you can take a nap.” He got out, circling in front of the car to reach Peter’s side and ease that door open, then help Venkman out. Egon gripped the slightly unsteady psychologist’s arm and together they made their way across the garage and up the stairs.

Peter was already dreaming about bed, but he gave Egon a mischievous smile as they climbed the steps. “How ‘bout the laundry? Can’t carry the basket with one hand.” He felt a hundred pounds lighter, even if his body was one big bruise.

“You can still sort one-handed,” Egon said implacably. Wonderfully, typically reliable. “And if you insist on pulling another stunt like you did today, I shall personally see to it that your impaired state is permanent.”

A threat full of three-syllable words, wrapped up in his friends’ sincere concern for him. Peter grinned. It was about as far from being alone as a bereft little twelve-year-old boy could have imagined twenty years before. The guys knew it, too.

Not that he needed to say that and get all mushy.

“Okay, but somebody still needs to bring the hamper down,” Peter cheerfully ran on. “And I can’t cook or take out the trash one-handed, either. I think I can handle the TV remote, if I don’t have to get up and fetch it...”

The End


End file.
